


nameless things

by psikeval



Category: Maleficent (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2270379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diaval has a question.</p><p>[coda fic]</p>
            </blockquote>





	nameless things

Maleficent’s wings are beautiful.

He’s never seen her move without the tight-drawn lines of pain in her shoulders and spine, the staff ever-present to balance the unsteady weight of her body. It was as if he never realized just how close she kept her sorrow until her wings unfurled behind her, heavy dark feathers ruffled by the breeze, idly reaching back to preen them into place with her fingers. Her movements are liquid, her magic golden — and the way she _smiles._

Today, the day he means to finally ask, no matter what, he finds her lazily perched in the branches of her favorite tree in the moor, and manages not to complain when he lands and is swiftly changed into a man.

His human body isn’t good with trees, always clumsy, fingers full of splinters. Once, when she was particularly angry, she left him stranded to climb down on his own, and only changed him when he fell. Falling is terrible for anything that flies, maybe even worse than being a dog.

But he’s gotten much better, in seventeen years. More careful, at least, about clinging to the sturdiest branches and saying the right things until there’s solid ground below. “Mistress. Can I ask you something?”

She glances back at him, raises an eyebrow, and goes back to watching the sky.

“Of course.” As if it were always that simple, with her.

Diaval bites at his lips. He’s been putting this off for weeks now; of course he would catch her in one of her accommodating moods. There’ve been days not so far gone when she would have changed him just for speaking, and he’d never have to bring it up again. It’s awful, her being so happy.

(Ravens, for all their excellent traits, are terrible liars.)

“When you made me like this,” he finally says, fidgeting with his shoulders, with his feet that dangle so uselessly in the air—old habits. “You said I was going to be your wings.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got your own wings back. What am I now?”

Her head turns sharply to look at him, curved horns and burning eyes and a blood-red mouth, wings held stiff behind her. She stares, then looks away and says, “I don’t understand,” but her eyes are too distant for it to be true.

“Well,” he says carefully, stalling. Surely buying time will slow the lurching rockslide beat of his heart, will ease the words in his throat. “If you don’t have any use for me now—”

“Do you want to be free?” she snaps. “Is that it?”

Not at all what he meant, but an interesting thought, perhaps.

Diaval tilts his head and considers it. _Free_ is a tricky word. He was free when he gave his oath, after all, has been free each time he’s done as she asks, as raven or horse or a dragon screaming fire at those men who dared attack her; there is no compulsion at work, despite what others might think. Maleficent shapes his body as she will, but he moves himself.

“I’m free as I need to be, Mistress. I was only… curious.”

There’s a quiet sound, _hmph,_ in the air between them, and she doesn’t bother to look at him again. But the tension he made has loosened once more; she will not make him go.

For a while, Maleficent shuts her eyes against the slanting evening sunlight, and he leaves her alone. Diaval’s silence she takes as it suits her, but her own stillness stands as refuge for herself and her thoughts, a peace carved out for a wounded faerie when her wings and laughter were stolen. He hardly ever dares disturb her, no matter how long she needs him to wait. Still, before he even begins to fidget, she opens her eyes and speaks.

“Not my wings anymore,” she admits, the feathered limbs stretched behind them both, brushing his shoulders, heavy and soft. Below them the moors are turning muted gold and pink with the sunset. She curls her fingers tight around the gnarled tree branch at her side, and nods, just once, to herself. “But still mine.”

This body feels joy the way a bird never can, heavy-boned and so warm, short of breath. Diaval stays silent and still. It’s the sort of moment to curl around and keep, a shock and a glow that can’t last long enough — and besides, she does like to have the last word.

“Fly with me,” she commands at moment later, a flick of her fingers changing him, and he catches sight of her bright-wild smile before she flings herself into the air, easy and powerful as only Maleficent can be.

Of course, he follows.


End file.
